“IT starts at 6:30. Don’t. Be. Late.” Youngest Child’s choir is singing in the Usher Hall. She has a wee solo spot.
I feel sick. Youngest doesn’t. She can’t wait.
What kind of rubbish parent would be late for something like that?
“Can’t be late … never forgive me … go straight from office,” I mutter as I race to the boys’ school at 8am for a pre-work meeting.
Among other blows, the summit reveals tonight is parents’ night. What kind of rubbish parent doesn’t know that?
Against the odds, Middle Child has made a solitary appointment for me (one more than Eldest.) What kind of rubbish parent dodges parents’ night?
Later this means a massive round trip. Work, school, concert. I’d cry if I had time.
I make my parents’ night slot with seconds to spare, then hop from foot to foot for 20 minutes, waiting. Youngest is on stage in 15. I feel a tear. I cut and run. What kind of parent abandons parents’ night?
I arrive one song in. Youngest will be backstage, none the wiser. Three (count ‘em) hours later I feel I’ve redeemed myself as a parent and Youngest Child has sung a blinder. A tear of pride forms.
“You were brilliant,” I say, hugging her.
“You were late. Saw you arrive.”
What kind of rubbish parent...?